A Long Delayed Homecoming
by Arwen Jade Kenobi
Summary: Holmes/Watson. Retiring together is at the mercy of timing, and the timing is never right when they want it to be


_Sunday, 15 December 1918_

_I absolutely, categorically, refuse to open my practice tomorrow. I refuse to walk down those stairs and deal with any more runny noses, chest infections, broken bones, headaches, allergies, etc. I refuse to go to the hospital on Tuesday as well. I refuse to work so hard to keep so many young men alive only to fail more often than succeed._

_I also refuse to deal with London. I will not go for a walk tomorrow evening. I will not go to that damned play with Lestrade. I will not set foot out of this bedroom again unless it is to move to Sussex. I am finished with London, and doctoring, and living away from Sherlock Holmes. _

_Retirement is the best thought I've had all night._

He puts his pen down and reads what he's written with a smile. That beaming, cheerful smile turns into a sad, rueful one as he sets pen to paper again.

_Alright John, now burn this and get to bed. You've got Miss Thurston first thing in the morning and you will most certainly require all the rest you can to deal with her._

He does just that.

* * *

><p>Once in what seems like another life more often than not these days, Sherlock Holmes had thrown up his hands in despair at a letter from a young woman seeking his advice on a situation offered to her. "This marks my zero point," he had said then. That case had eventually become "The Adventure of the Copper Beaches" and had been far from Holmes's zero point. It is that story that Watson keeps with him on days when he feels like giving up. Today's zero point might well become tomorrow's Copper Beaches after all.<p>

Every day feels like a zero point to Watson nonetheless. Sometimes it is every other day but no day is ever truly a good one or an improvement of the previous one. If he is extremely fortunate the days are all identical to one another in severity; in his declining years Watson has learned to appreciate the dull routine of existence even if it is hard going.

These are the times that Watson misses the war; the war in Afghanistan, the war on criminal London, the Great War, any and all would be welcome. Not for the toll on humanity but for the idea and sense that he was doing something and that some difference was being made because of his efforts. When it had been him and Holmes against the worst of London he was making a difference. When it had been him in Afghanistan he had been making a difference. When Holmes had retired and Watson had remained behind he had put up with it for a different reason. He was 'married' after all and appearances had to be kept. There was a goal there if not a difference to be made. He was to pretend to be married for a few years and then join Holmes and his bees in Sussex.

Then Mycroft had drawn Holmes out to Whitehall when Watson had been ready to retire. Not at once since he was still wary about causing a scandal but he had been making his preparations at the time. When he had heard that Holmes would be in London he had slowed those preparations, and when Holmes had told him that he'd be abroad more than at home Watson had abandoned his plans completely. He had been upset but he was not going to keep Holmes from his work nor was he going to sit in Sussex alone. The work in London would keep him busy and sane until Holmes' tasks were done.

Then he had vanished for two years with only a handful of signs or correspondence to say he was still walking amongst the living. In that time Watson had worked hard. He had done what he could and when things were certainly headed for war he reenlisted. Holmes had known instantly of course and had said nothing against it once they had reunited, briefly, before going their separate ways again. Then he had been off to France and Holmes to God knows where to do their parts for King and Country. There had been no time him to miss Holmes there. Years of blood and war and death had eclipsed everything and rightly so. What were the problems of two men in the face of such a thing? He had written to Holmes through Mycroft at the foreign office when he could, discreetly of course, and sometimes he received replies. Once Holmes had actually come through his company in disguise on a mission; they had not been able to speak but Watson had been overjoyed to see him alive and in good health. Holmes certainly had felt the same; Watson could see and hear that plain enough across the distance between them. From that meeting alone Watson had felt ready to battle on for another few years.

Then his health had decided otherwise. He had caught what he initially dismissed as a mild flu which eventually revealed itself to be severe pneumonia. That had been enough to contend with but he also managed to catch the fever that had been burning through his company like wildfire. Watson had always prided himself on having a rather admirable constitution but the duel illness nearly killed him before he'd finally been invalided home. That had been that, he had decided. He had retired and moved to Sussex to await Holmes's return. Holmes, he had learned later, had not been told of his illness at once; Watson had been grateful for that. As much good as having Holmes nearby would have done him, there was some great benefit in spending several months alone in quiet convalescence with only bees and a few neighbours for company. The man himself, however, had been far from impressed once he had found out. Watson suspected that Mycroft's deafness in his left ear was a result of the aftermath of Holmes's discovery. He had been unable to return to England at that point so he had compensated by writing even more, promising many happy years on the Downs once this bloody war was done and dealt with.

Then Spanish Flu had come upon London like a storm and Watson had found it impossible to idle in retirement when he was perfectly able and suited -he was much older than the typical sufferer- to help these young men. He moved back to London, took as many hours helping with the war on the Flu that he was allowed, and returned to practice. Mycroft had once again decided to not tell his brother of Watson's decision. He left that to Watson himself this time, who mentioned it only after he had been set up in London again for a month.

He had heard nothing from his friend and had been worried that perhaps he might be captured or dead. Mycroft had assured him that it was quite impossible and had begged him to go on with what he was doing. His brother would seek him out at once as soon as he was on British soil. This was July 1918 and Mycroft had said he could smell the decay of the war in the wind. "He shall be back before Christmas," Mycroft had declared. "This war will end, he will return, and he will not take another case again."

The war had ended on 11 November. Watson had joined in the solemn observances as well as the celebrations and waited eagerly for a telegram demanding that he abandon his practice forthwith and come away to Sussex with him. That or else a demand that he retrieve him from the docks with his neighbour's motorcar and then come away with him. No such missives came and Watson worried all the more. Mycroft assured him once again that Holmes would be home before Christmas and refused to speak any more on the matter.

What was one more worry, or rather just extending a current one? Watson was always worried. The Spanish Flu was getting worse and worse by the day – the stress got the better of him and he now assisted only three days of the week and attended his practice the other days but the epidemic was all around the city in any case. He worried about the young men under his care, he worried about the ones who had returned in pieces one way or the other, he worried for the ones that would always be considered cowards when that was far from what they were, he worried about coming down with something himself again, and he worried about Holmes.

Lestrade, a cheerful retired grandfather now, had told him that he needed to drop either the doctoring or the worrying; a man of his years could not afford two full time professions. Watson had to agree with that assessment but he did not see himself forgoing one or the other.

Friday 29 November had been a long, hard day. They had lost four lads and Watson had been looking forward to a glass of brand and a dreamless sleep. When he'd arrived back at Queen Anne Street he'd shut the door and leaned against it, Gladstone bag dropping carelessly to the floor, and was taking a few moments to compose himself before committing to anything more draining. He breathed deeply and shut his eyes. He was glad to have seen the back of that building until Tuesday.

His eyes had still been shut when he'd heard Holmes call his name so he'd dismissed it as merely his poor tired brain trying to calm itself down. When he'd felt long fingers close on his shoulders, however, he'd known full well it was real before his eyes had flown open. He'd then attacked the man with an embrace so tight that Watson's wounded shoulder tightened with a spasm. He'd wanted to keep the embrace longer but Holmes had been fussed and had deposited him in his favourite chair with a glass of brandy pressed into his fingers.

They had talked and reacquainted themselves in other ways for the rest of the night and well into the morning. If Watson's leg or shoulder protested, or Holmes' healing ribs and hip made their owner wince, neither of them said anything about it. Holmes had waited until the weekend's end to ask Watson to come and retire with him properly. It was their time, both of their times, and finally they were both in a position to retire together.

It was all perfectly logical and perfectly true but Watson had said he would retire once the epidemic could cease to be called as such. Then they had fought and Holmes had stormed out, angry and exasperated, and returned to his bees. In the old days Watson would have been distraught, would have followed him right to Sussex, or 'phoned him until the man had no choice but to answer him or to rip the contraption off the wall.

It had taken him a long time to learn it but he knew Holmes would always come back to him. Holmes had lasted two days before wiring him with an apology and an appeal to return to retirement. It was an indiscreet telegram as well as a discreet one and Watson had felt no shame or danger in keeping it. He wired back reiterating his position. Another two days passed before Holmes rang him and informed him that if he caught "that damn flu" he would have nothing to do with his overly sentimental and overly humane person. Watson had responded with an order for him to keep a good eye on the bees–he wouldn't have Holmes undo all the work he'd put into them.

They will be together again for Christmas, Watson reminds himself. Arrangements as they stand have him staying with Holmes from the twentieth until the third and he knows Holmes will use every technique that he has to convince him to not return to London. Holmes could convince him with little effort but Watson knows that he will not push him. Holmes may want things one way but he would not appreciate having Watson through trickery or force. They are both patient men, one less obviously so than the other, and Holmes will endure another few months if necessary.

Endure. That is what life in London has become to Watson – a test of his endurance. At this rate he will be in Sussex tomorrow night and sending for his things in the morning. Soon, he promises himself as he watches the note burn.

Soon.

* * *

><p>Mrs. Margaret Thurston was a forty one year old widow who came to see him at least twice week about whatever ailment she had convinced herself she suffered from. She frequently arrived without an appointment but it was when she did have an appointment that Watson knew he'd be dealing with her for at least three quarters of an hour. Watson had never turned away a patient or thought of doing so but whenever he heard her shrill voice or saw her name on his list of appointments he found himself seriously considering shutting up his practice and hiding upstairs feigning death or illness.<p>

Today she was convinced she had come down with Spanish Flu. It was a miracle that she had lasted this long without suspecting she had contracted it. She had barely sat down before he told her that there was no possible way that she could have it – he didn't have to examine her or even look at her to know this. He could hear the disease and feel it at fifty feet now and he did not hear or feel it in this woman. He went about his usual speech about drawing conclusions that had no basis in actual fact and this time Mrs. Thurston decided to challenge him on the subject. Watson did not remember what he told her, it probably involved the men he watched die thrice weekly from this disease she claimed to have in order to draw sympathies from her disgruntled parents, but she left in tears and promised to find herself a more compassionate physician.

His maid Maggie had, under her breath, congratulated him for finally getting rid of her, and had ushered the next patient through. Watson cannot be proud of it – he has never lost his patience in this way before and he has been the personal physician of Sherlock Holmes for nearly forty years. He helps himself to some more tea and ushers the pained young man suffering from battle fatigue to a seat. He sees one or two more lads like him and almost prescribes himself something for his nerves. Maggie brings his luncheon in and the sandwich is two inches from his mouth when she returns saying the 'phone is for him.

"Tell them to ring back in a quarter of an hour," he orders as he takes a bite. It doesn't taste quite right but he is still grateful for it. She disappears to carry out her orders but the blasted invention rings again a minute later. He hears her say the same message and then hang up. Two minutes later it rings again. Watson sets his half eaten sandwich down and wanders over to her. "Who is it?" he asks, though he thinks he knows the answer.

"Didn't ask," Maggie admits.

"I think I know who it is. You go on with the rest of your duties." The maid scuttles off and the thing rings again. "Hello, Mr. Holmes," Watson greets, formal and exasperated all at once. He pauses until the young girl is out of earshot and then adds that if he is this jealous of a mediocre duck sandwich then he may need to be seeing him in a professional capacity very soon.

"At long last," Holmes sighs, theatrically. "That girl is – "

"Is most exceptional," Watson interrupts. "There's no need to pester her because I told her to leave me and my sandwich in peace."

"Early luncheon, doctor? Needing more of a rest between patients, old man?"

"You are two years my junior so kindly shut your mouth on the subject of my age unless you are prepared to accept it yourself." The barking laugh brings a much needed smile and chuckle. "I just had a patient storm out most violently for my informing her she is not the latest sufferer of the Spanish Flu," he confides when Holmes questions him about what has his laugh tinged with trouble.

"How ungracious. Sign to pack it in if I ever saw one."

Watson rolls his eyes. "Do you plan to ring me every day to try and convince me to drop everything in a moment of weakness?"

"Naturally. At this point it seems to be the only opportunity I will have at potentially succeeding!" He harrumphs, only feigning annoyance. "I've also lived long enough without hearing your voice every day if I can be honest."

"Holmes!" Watson hisses. "Not here!"

"Why ever not? Only you can hear me and I live alone, remember?"

"But – "

"No one is listening, John." The use of his Christian name and the firm but gentle reassurance was both shocking and soothing. "Mycroft has made sure of it."

Watson wants to ask how but decides against it – he's not quite sure he wants to know how the elder Holmes manages anything. He also doesn't want to know if Mycroft himself has access to the line. He has long known about them and supported them but it was still disquieting to imagine Mycroft monitoring them in the name of national security or some other such rot.

"Holmes," he sighs as he looks at his pocket watch. "I must get back within a few minutes. I have appointments up until my consulting hours end."

"Are you going to the hospital tonight?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Tonight I'm seeing that blasted musical with Lestrade."

Holmes guffaws on the other end and Watson tries to make his glare travel through the telephone and into his friend's Sussex home. "I need some sort of diversion, a reason to quit my rooms for a night. If I must sit through a bloody musical I'm willing to do it."

"The state of affairs must be dire indeed," his friend muses. "Perhaps – "

"Drop it, Holmes," Watson orders. "I have neither the time nor the desire to discuss this."

He is both surprised and saddened when Holmes heeds him. They discuss more pleasant matters for a few more minutes before Watson has to end the conversation. He sighs heavily as he rings off and stares at the thing sadly for a moment. It is a wonder, Watson knows, that it is possible for them to talk to one on another like this but the distance seems even further between them as a result. He wonders if Holmes suffers the same curious sentiment.

He takes a deep breath as he settles himself down at his desk again. He finishes his lunch, gratefully accepts another pot of tea from Maggie, and steels himself as he asks for his next patient to come in.

* * *

><p>Lestrade is still laughing as they exit the theatre. Watson is trying very hard to keep his practiced smile on his face but he knows that he is failing. He understands the reasons why these musical plays have become so popular but he absolutely cannot abide them. That being said the last time he and Lestrade had gone out together it had been to something of Watson's choosing and Lestrade's distaste for opera nearly matches Watson's distaste for this. Fair was fair but it did not mean that Watson had to enjoy it.<p>

For some reason Lestrade has failed to catch on to the fact that Watson only barely tolerates these shows. He wishes Holmes could be here to witness this since he has always said that Watson's abilities at dissimulation were laughable. In fact he wishes the Holmes from May of 1891 could see this performance and think twice about pretending to be dead for three years without telling him.

As much as Watson is glad for Lestrade's company he is glad to see him off in his own cab – the former inspector was quoting his favourite parts of the performance and he was very close to attempting to sing the title number. Watson has heard Lestrade sing once in his life thanks to excessive drink and Watson refuses to put himself through it again.

It is five minutes before Watson manages to hail his own cab back to Queen Anne Street. Despite himself he feels his fingers tapping along to the title song, which has decided to lodge itself in his head. He is attempting to decide which Mendelssohn piece he wants to imagine Holmes playing to chase the song out when he unlocks his door and hears raised voices in his house. Voices he does not know and voices that are discussing which bits of his property they plan to make off with and what to do with the owner of said property should he return.

Watson shuts the door, quietly, and removes his jacket. He grips his stick tightly as he makes his way to the telephone. "Scotland Yard, please," he whispers to the operator. He gives his address and his complaint and rings off. He wonders if perhaps he should have asked for a doctor as well but decides against it. His gun is upstairs so it is going to be brute force to get his point across. Watson may not be as young as he once was but he is hale and hearty enough to give these devils a trouncing they won't soon forget. He has been a soldier in some form or another for his entire adult life after all.

When he confronts his three unwanted visitors there is a good old fashioned brawl that Watson has not seen since before Holmes had retired. He is bruised, bloodied, and limping heavily by the time Scotland Yard arrives but two of the would be thieves are unconscious and the third is pinned underneath Watson's boot while he near stands on his throat, stick pressed against the Adam's apple. Inspector Hopkins arrives on the scene and takes the villains away. He wants to send Watson to a hospital but Watson assures him that he is fine. He's had much worse and reminds them of that.

Once he gets everyone out of his house his telephone rings. He lets out a breath of relief when it is Mycroft. "Do not tell him," he orders. "I will not have him worry over nothing."

"It is hardly nothing, doctor, but I will say nothing. He will find out on his own, you realise."

Watson does not know if Hopkins speaks to Holmes but to ring him to tell him to not tell Holmes would be a strange behaviour. He considers asking Lestrade to not pass it along but he doesn't expect Lestrade to find out until the next day and he highly doubts his first action would be to contact Holmes. Satisfied with this, Watson draws himself a bath and allows his leg to recover. He then calls it an early night.

* * *

><p>London freezes over night and Watson freezes along with it. When he wakes up in the morning his entire body hurts. Even his leg, which had been quite agreeable after the bath, loudly voices its displeasure. He asks his maid to refer all of today's appointments to Doctor Price next door. He'll reschedule with anyone who Price cannot take once he is able to stand again. She gives him an extra blanket and looks at him with such pity that Watson is giving due consideration to dismissing her permanently.<p>

Perhaps, he wonders as lays back on the pillows, it is time to hang up his hat and retreat into Sussex after all. This nonsense assuredly did not happen on the Downs. He could have a quiet country practice if chose to have one at all. He would not have to deal with London's more irksome ailments, wouldn't have to watch young men die three days a week.

His leg spasms so violently that he is launched into sitting up. He clenches his teeth and then does his best to massage the pain away. He considers walking it off but decides he does not feel like falling and having Maggie save him and fuss over him. He grits his teeth until the throbbing finally stops enough for him to lie back down. Perhaps he should ask Price to prescribe him something. This is becoming quite intolerable.

Eventually he asks Maggie to do just that and relief finally comes in the form of a small dose of morphine. He remains in bed until the next morning and the telephone does not ring all day.

When he rises it is colder than it had been the day previous and his leg refuses to cooperate. He is greatly annoyed to have to ask for his cane – a cane that he dreads one day being a regular fixture in his life – in order to make it past his bedroom. The stairs down to his practice have never been so difficult. He remembers moving into Baker Street all those years ago and those seventeen steps only giving him moderate trouble with a fairly fresh injury. There are twenty here but there is a landing between sets of ten. This should not be this difficult.

A steady stream of colds and assorted bumps and bruises from the freeze the night before make Watson bored enough to consider using his walls for target practice. He decides to ring the hospital to offer his services for the evening. He had been meant to go in the day before and felt compelled to make up for it despite Doctor Mumford's assurances that there was no need. There may well be no real need for him, present situation accounted for naturally, but he knows he needs to get out before he loses his mind.

He wonders as he steps into the cab if this is what Holmes feels like before a black mood takes hold. He hopes that it is not. He really does not want to find out how evil those moods are; watching them has always been plenty.

Doctor Harold Mumford is pleased to see him albeit concerned about the use of the cane and the slowness of his movements. Watson assures him that he will not be running down any hallways any time soon. "I'm here to be used," is what he tells him and he finds himself wishing he had used another phrase. Doctor Mumford does not pay any mind to his choice of words and gives him two new arrivals to get started with for the night. Usually Watson is sent to work with the lads that are farther along but it seems the good man is trying to make things easy for him Watson has never been fond of the easy way or fond of being pitied but he is fond of keeping the peace. He says nothing and sees to his duties for Leonard Green and Christopher Parsons without complaint.

Parsons seems far more concerned about Watson's limp than his own breathing difficulties and Green is too furious at himself for being ill to do much good for either of them. He enjoys what time he spends with them – Green has quite a few amusing tales about his young son and Parsons has a few to match involving his younger brother – but soon enough he hears commotion down the hall and he's already limping toward the door when a harried looking nurse (Miss Lawson? Miss Lawrence? He can't quite remember) rushes by his door calling for assistance. Watson answers it and the girl looks ready to cry with relief.

Two hours later despite their efforts they've lost one more good man: David Eustace, aged twenty five. He'd survived the hell of Passchendale but that had made no matter to the Flu. Watson had met him before – he's been in the hospital for weeks and had seemed to be improving – and had got on rather well with him. Both of them were medical men and had grown up abroad. Both also loved mysteries and, as Eustace read the Strand as eagerly as anyone else who knew the name Sherlock Holmes, had many discussions on various stories of Watson's and of others writers'. The last one had involved asking if _His Last Bow_ was really going to be it and Watson had admitted that he was not sure anymore. He had imagined that that would be it when he had written it but he had to admit then that there were some tales that were just waiting to be written. Eustace will never read those stories now.

He has seen many men die in these walls. Some he had become better acquainted with than with Eustace but it is the death of this young man who reminds him so much of himself that makes him want to leave. He asks permission of Doctor Mumford to leave early and it is granted. The real discussion at hand is of Watson's resignation and they both know it. Mumford has the good grace to say nothing. He merely thanks him for his service and asks if he would like a cab home. Watson refuses and refuses again despite the warnings against the cold and the ice. It is going to be an intolerable and long walk but he thinks somehow that it is deserved.

Watson is the first person to know that it is impossible to save everyone. He has known this since earning his degrees and has known this since Afghanistan. He is simply tired of it. Tired of the whole mess that is his existence in London. He would give anything to go home to Holmes and allow the man's attempts to cheer him up distract him from this dull, hopeless, routine of existence.

He's wondering the precise circumstances that had made Holmes once say something very similar when his cane slips on a bit of undetected ice. He tries to right himself but his wounded leg refuses to support him. He wobbles and falls and he hears a horrible cracking sound just as the world leaves his awareness.

* * *

><p>When awareness returns to Watson his head is hurting but distantly. Morphine, he decides. The bed he is in is not his own and he can hear a distant noise that sounds like screaming. Hospital then. He cracks an eye open and finds his suspicions are correct. He raises his hand up to feel his head and finds a bandage. Simple probing reveals a bit of a bump underneath but nothing too substantial. Well done, he thinks to himself, you have cracked your head on harder things and have managed to not instantly lose consciousness. If you weren't an old man before you certainly are now.<p>

"You have given me an infinite level of grief, doctor." Watson does not attempt to refute that statement. The fact that Mycroft Holmes is here at all is all the proof he needs. Where is he though? Watson turns his head and sees Mycroft leaning against the wall with the receiver of the ward telephone hovering near his good ear. "Yes he is awake now," he is saying into it now. "He appears fine – you are quite alright aren't you?"

Watson attempts a shrug. "Nothing hurts more than it ought," he decides. Mycroft is listening intently to the 'phone but can still react to Watson's words. Having only one usable ear has not seemed to fuss the man much; his hearing is still far too keen than most mortals. "Is that your brother on the line?"

"Obviously," Mycroft sniffs. "I told you he would find out eventually – Sherlock, hold your tongue. The man does not deserve that sort of abuse."

_Put him on!_ Comes the distant, tinny, order. Mycroft is holding the receiver several inches from his ear now. _Let me speak to him this instant, Mycroft!_

"The cord will not traverse the distance from here to his bed, Sherlock," Mycroft lectures. "Or would you like me to make him walk over?"

"I can hear you fine, Holmes," Watson growls at the thing. "Now what is it you wish to say?"

_First that you are the most idiotic person I have ever met._

Watson does not bother responding to that.

_Second that you are also the hardest headed person I have ever met, and that is something for which I am told I should be very grateful_

Watson has no idea how best to respond to that. He thanks Holmes and that only increases the fires of the man's rage.

_Do you have any idea,_ Holmes continues, _how terrifying it is to be told that your friend has been admitted to hospital due to a fall on the ice and then to infer from my brother's less than standard efforts of misdirection that two nights previous he had singlehandedly fended off three burglars with some measure of injury to his person? _

"I actually have several ideas," Watson snaps in return. Mycroft rests the receiver on the top of the telephone itself and leaves the room. "Shall I name them in chronological order or alphabetical?"

_Watson I –_

"I did not ask to be burgled," he shouts. He quickly looks around and finds the ward he is on is empty. Odd, but at least his bellowing will not be bothering anyone but the subject of said bellowing. "I did not ask to slip on the ice. I did not ask for this war. I did not ask for my daily life to become a test of my patience and my endurance. I did not ask to grow so old and tired, Sherlock. I did not ask for any of it!" He feels slightly embarrassed at this outburst but he does feel much better. Holmes does not answer for several moments. Watson almost thinks that he has rung off.

_None of us ask for it_. He finally replies. _If I could have continued with my work and loved it as much as I love...well, if I could have done it forever I would have. There is a time for all of us to leave the stage. The puzzle is sorting when that time has come. My time came on the fifth of May 1907 – at least I thought it had but it seemed I had a few years left in me. My time, and I mean it officially now, came on the eleventh of November of this year. The time between then and when you saw me was spent in getting the blasted hell off the continent. _He pauses for a few moments. Then takes a deep breath and continues. _ I seem to remember you wishing to retire in August of 1909 until it became clear that I would not be remaining in my own retirement. You were actually in retirement from last December until June of this year without me. That was due to your trials in the war more than your choice I know..._

"It was choice," Watson admits. "I had decided being sent home alive from two wars was my cue to exit the stage as you so put it. It was only the idea that I could help with this that I decided to go back to practice."

_And you have not enjoyed a single moment of it since, have you?_

"That would be perverse, Holmes!"

_That it would. But you do enjoy the danger, the thrill, all of it. As much suffering and pain that you put up with in Afghanistan and with me you still enjoyed it. I've known you long enough, my boy, and I know you are not enjoying a single part of this._

Watson sighs and swings himself off the bed. He wobbles a bit and is grateful to find his cane leaning against a chair. He sets himself and slowly makes his way over to the receiver. "You're right," he whispers once he's pressed it against his ear.

_Did you just walk over here? Where the hell is Mycroft and why didn't he stop you?_

"He excused himself some time ago. What day is it today?"

_It is nigh on one in the morning on the eighteenth of December. By the time I was informed of your troubles there was no train for me to catch, otherwise I should be there with you now._

"The eighteenth it is then."

The pause is a cautious one. _Come again, old friend_?

"The eighteenth of December 1918," I pronounce. "That is my date of retirement. Once a more reasonable hour arrives I shall start the preparations."

Watson has to hold the receiver away from his ear again when he hears Holmes' delighted whoops of joy through the receiver. His own smile if it had a voice, he knew, would rival Holmes' cries.

* * *

><p>Watson decides he does not need to be present for the sale of the practice. Immediately after he makes that decision Mycroft presents him with a buyer for said practice. He asks if this is yet another relative of the Holmes family and Mycroft refuses to comment. Watson decides that it is best to not ask whether this was Holmes or Mycroft's doing – if they want to help him out of London faster he is all for it. He is all for it that is if said attempts actually help him move when he wishes to move. He has decided Friday the twenty second will be the day. He believes that he has announced this to the Holmes brothers and Lestrade more than once. That does not stop everyone from functioning as if he is leaving that moment.<p>

Watson really does not understand how everyone seems to be relieved that he is leaving. He understands Holmes but he does not understand why Mycroft and Lestrade are in such a rush to see him out. Mycroft is not at his practice constantly but it seems that Lestrade might as well move in himself with the amount of time he spends over there – and it is taking feats worthy of epic poetry to stop Holmes from coming down from Sussex and helping. Sherlock Holmes had helped him move back to Baker Street from his practice after his return to life and that had been a nightmare that Watson has no desire to repeat. The man was well intentioned to be sure but he was not the first person, or even the last, that Watson would pick to help him move house. He has, he hopes, managed to keep Holmes in Sussex via regularly sending him luggage with some of the men Mycroft has recruited to assist him.

He does call every night asking if he has decided which train yet. "I cannot simply leave my bees, you know. I do need notice."

"Holmes, I have been at your beck and call for nearly all of my adult life. It could potentially do you some good to be at mine. I shall inform you when I have some sort of idea." Holmes had grumbled at this but they both knew it was only for show. Holmes is excited, more excited than he had been the day that Watson had moved back from Kensington. He is bursting at the seams and fetching and unpacking Watson's luggage is the only thing keeping him from exploding.

"How is it that you allow him to unpack your things but not allow him to do anything else?" Lestrade asks him on his final dinner in London. "I remember the terror he was the last time you moved back in with him. Heaven knows I wouldn't want him underfoot but why this particular arrangement?"

Watson has never told Lestrade the exact nature of the relationship between him and Sherlock Holmes. He does not believe he has ever needed to and he is still cautious of Lestrade's connection to Scotland Yard. Fortunately though Holmes is a strange enough man that anything they do is easily dismissed as eccentricity. "It's a game of sorts," Watson begins to explain. "I lived there without him so long and all of my things were long gone by the time he got back. No evidence to suggest where I kept everything..."

"He's reconstructing," Lestrade finishes. "He's deducing where you lived and how you lived. How you plan to live as well."

"And I reserve the right to rearrange as I see fit." Watson concludes happily. "It is an ideal solution: I am moving myself out and he is moving me in."

"If only you'd thought of that in the Baker Street days."

Watson has to agree with that sentiment but they had been in no frame of mind to suggest anything logical. The decision to move back in had been made the night of Moran's capture and they had gone to work the next day. They had lived without each other for three years and they each had loathed every moment of it. That being said it had taken some level of adjustment to find that equilibrium that they had so enjoyed again. This situation was much smoother. They were older and the separation had happened under different terms. Holmes may be as now as then but he has patience in this instance. He will wait and he will satisfy himself with what role he has been given and remember the fact that Watson will be with him forever by half past one tomorrow afternoon.

Forever. No human could have forever but they could have their own definition of it. Both of them are healthy and in good physical shape – they could have another two decades together potentially. Nearly forty years still seems like no time at all but Watson would never deny himself a single extra second with Holmes.

"You are going to blind me with that smile, Doctor."

Watson apologizes but does not stop smiling. Lestrade matches the grin and when they part company he promises to come up and visit them before the New Year if Holmes will allow him. "He has always been territorial with you," he quips with a knowing smile. "I should not be surprised if this is the last I see of you."

"Nonsense, Lestrade," Watson assures him. "He shall be delighted to see you...though I would say to give him at least a week before calling."

Lestrade snorts his agreement, shakes Watson's hand, and wishes him a safe journey.

Watson is ready to go to bed when the telephone rings. "Hello?"

_You are coming tomorrow, yes?_

Watson smiles kindly to no one. He had not realised it before now but he has been waiting for this call. "Of course I am. You have all my belongings so I have no alternative, have I?"

_Ah. Yes. Quite right...so I shall meet you at the station at half past one?_

"Barring any delays, yes."

_There will be no delays_. In any other man that firm, masterful, edict would be dismissed as a simple jest. In this case Watson would not be surprised if Holmes and his brother haven't done something to assure that he arrives precisely on time.

"As you say," Watson agrees. Their conversation is short, mostly reviewing Watson's route and precise travel arrangements. They do not speak of the doubt that Holmes feels or of the fear that something will keep them apart once more for whatever reason. It is not an unfounded fear given their history but Watson does his upmost best to assure him that he will be moving tomorrow. "I shall see you tomorrow," he promises. "And every tomorrow thereafter."

_That is quite the promise, Watson._

"I am confident I can stand by it."

_I do believe you can. _There is silence over the line for nearly a minute before he speaks again. _I shall let you sleep. Goodnight, my dear Watson._

"And to you, my dear Holmes."

* * *

><p>Watson is escorted to the station by Mycroft. He spends the cab ride praying that Mycroft doesn't inform him that either of them needs to be sent abroad again until Mycroft requests that he quiet his thoughts and that he is merely performing a favour to his brother. Holmes has always been protective of him, this much he knows, but he really feels that he ought to be insulted. The last time that Mycroft had had to escort him to a station it had been during the Moriarty affair and Mycroft had been in disguise himself then.<p>

Holmes has never shown his affection in a conventional manner; he supposes he should be flattered. Mycroft does draw the line at actually walking him to the platform. They shake hands and Mycroft requests that they visit soon – however soon that may be. He holds his hand for a little bit longer than necessary and Watson watches as Mycroft considers whether or not to embrace him. Blessedly he decides against it and Watson walks leisurely to the ticket agent, hands over his fare and stands with the other travellers waiting for their train. A few are packed for a day's journey, a few are clearly planning extended stays, and a few are only stopping in Sussex briefly. Watson himself only has his Gladstone bag with him. Everything else that belongs to him is in Sussex waiting for him. At a passing glace Watson could be assumed as either visiting or returning home.

London no longer has any hold on him but it is still saddens him to leave. The city has a special place in his heart and means a great deal to him; it was his first love if one could use such an endearment to a location. Besides, if he may be permitted to continue to think sentimentally, it was his love of London that brought him to Holmes. Had he done the sensible thing and moved out into the suburbs and into some rooms that he would have been able to afford on his own where would he be today? Considering his state at the time, Watson does not want to contemplate the answer to that question.

The train pulls in slowly and quickly all at once. He takes one quick look across the arcade and nods to the ghosts of him and Holmes walking and running down it before stepping onto the car. He secures a compartment to himself and settles by the window. He watches London pass him by and, when fields greet him instead of suburbs, he takes out the morning edition and sets about reading it. He eventually nods off in spite of himself.

He rises twice during the two hour journey – once to partake in a sandwich and once just before he arrives. For ten minutes he watches as the fields and wide country roll by. For the first time in a long time Watson wonders about Holmes' choice of the country as his place of retirement. He had been so fond of saying that the country held the most nefarious of crimes. He had commented to Holmes then that retiring into the most dangerous part of the land was quite counterproductive – Holmes had laughed at him and said he had changed his mind on that regard. Watson had doubted that then and he still doubted it now. Mystery and adventure had a way of finding Holmes and himself and the fact that they were retired and in Sussex now would make little difference to fate and his emissaries. Whatever plans or mysteries or adventures lay ahead at least they would be together.

The station slowly becomes larger and larger until it is full size. The platform is sparsely populated but even if the entire population of Eastbourne had been crowded onto it he would have spotted Sherlock Holmes in an instant. Holmes has chosen to stand slightly to the left (Holmes' right) of the most concentrated clutches of people waiting on the platform. He will turn sixty-five next month but to Watson he is still that twenty-seven year old madman raving about bloodstain tests at St. Bart's. The flecks of grey in his hair and the solid grey at his temples only serve to make him look more attractive. His trousers and suit are new but the necktie is one of Watson's favourites as is his hat.

No matter how much Holmes has changed his eyes remain constant and that grey all seeing gaze is scanning each and every car for their target. Watson chuckles quietly as he pushes up the window of the car and sticks his head out. It is perhaps a bit too indiscreet a move on his part but he cannot find it in himself to care and, really, Holmes ought to have deduced which car he would be on. He waves eagerly but not too eagerly and when Holmes spies him he very nearly grins full out but manages to tame it into some sort of slightly above respectable smile as he returns the wave. Part of Watson has already leapt out of his seat and is eagerly waiting at the doors, urging the train to stop soon. Watson keeps himself in his seat and perhaps only slightly quickens his pace as he and his other passengers disembark. He seriously considers ensuring he is the last one off the car but decides there is only so much melodrama one can infuse into everyday life.

There are precious few people in between the two of them but both walk toward each other. Their hands extend and meet with forced politeness. Watson covers their joined hands with his other one in an effort to stop himself from just grabbing the man and he very nearly bursts out laughing when Holmes mirrors this gesture. "Hello," he grins.

Holmes' face becomes as serious as the grave. "Welcome home, John." It wished honestly, quietly, and fervently. Watson's heart nearly breaks at the words. He squeezes his hand tightly again, nods, and tells him that it is good to finally be home again. It is the truest thing he has said in what might possibly be his entire life.

Holmes picks up Watson's long abandoned Gladstone bag and takes his arm in his. "Come, I have a trap waiting." The two of them are utterly silent for the drive. When he can see the house in the distance he breathes out a sigh of relief and a weight that has been on his shoulders since June finally leaves him. Holmes has been staring at him the entire ride but his studious expression softens very slightly at the same moment Watson breathes out the stresses of London for good. "My dear, Watson..." he begins but thinks better of whatever he's about to say. He instead reaches out to clasp Watson's wrist for a half second before he pulls back.

When they stop and they are alone together once more Holmes all but drags him across the threshold. He drops Watson's bag in the hallway and captures Watson's face with his hands and conquers his mouth. Watson tries his very best to reciprocate but Holmes is not allowing it; he will plunder first and then maybe he will allow Watson what he chooses to leave behind. Once Holmes has finished with him he finds himself again imprisoned but this time in Holmes' straightjacket of an embrace. He has always known that Holmes had missed him, had worried for him, and had wished him at his side. He knows this because he missed, worried, and wished for Holmes in return but also because he has long ago learned that he should never doubt his place in Holmes' life.

That being said and understood he still was utterly taken aback and moved by how much Holmes had missed him. "It is good to see you too," he somehow manages to say as he lightly kisses what bit of Holmes he can; in this case it is his neck. Holmes shudders and his grip slackens enough that Watson gently breaks free and wraps his arms around his friend almost as tightly. Instead of laying waste to Holmes' mouth in return he kisses him long but almost chastely on the mouth. He pulls back, smiles brightly, and then repeats the gesture before he releases Holmes from his embrace to take his hand.

He plans to show him exactly how much he has missed him.

* * *

><p>They miss lunch and they very nearly miss dinner. Once John's expressions of his own longing have been received and more than understood Holmes displays where he has arranged Watson's possessions. Of course he has placed all of them in precisely the same locations Watson himself had located them when he had retired here the first time. He had expected no less of course. They are old men now but as Holmes both reacquaints and introduces Watson to this second life he can almost feel twenty nine again.<p>

Watson does not care though. They may be men in their sixties according to the calendar but he and Holmes will always be young men to each other and to themselves. One of the late Mrs. Hudson's grand nieces, a pleasant girl also christened Martha, had worked as housekeeper to Holmes while he had been here as well as for Watson. She had been told that her services would once again be required on a permanent basis if she was agreeable and she was thrilled to take up her post once more after the New Year. In the meantime she had prepared some easy meals and left some other provisions for them. She knows about them and is as discreet and indispensible as Mrs. Hudson had been. It will be good to see her again but he is perfectly content with it not being for some time yet.

Watson comes back to himself thanks to Holmes prodding him with his foot. They are still sitting at the table, Holmes food is mostly gone while Watson's has barely been touched and Holmes looks far more amused than concerned. "If you keep that expression on your face for much longer it is going to remain there forever."

That would explain why his cheeks felt a touch numb. He shakes his head a bit to clear his head and forces his expression into something more neutral. He opens his mouth to speak but finds himself unable to express precisely what he means to say. Holmes smiles tenderly and reaches for his hand. "There has never been a need for words, John," he near soothes, "there is no reason to create a need of them now."

They continue eating and then retire to the sitting room where Holmes brings out his violin and begins a medley of Watson's favourites. It is not very late but Watson finds himself nodding off in spite of himself. Holmes' hand on his arm rouses him and they wander to the bedroom together. Before Holmes' arriving back in England in November it had been years before he and Holmes had shared a bed. He knows that it has only been a few weeks now but it still feels as though it has been longer.

"I almost worry that I will not be here when I rise," Watson admits as Holmes pulls the covers over them both. In another age he would never have dared spoken such a thing aloud but he finds it immaterial now. In response Holmes moves behind him so Watson is pressed tightly against the former detective's chest. An arm reaches over to hold him in place.

"You are going to be here when you rise." Holmes promises him with a note of a threat in the loud yawn. It is good to know that Watson is not the only one that desires sleep. "Aside from the fact that we are quite obviously living in reality I refuse and reject any other possible outcome for tomorrow morning."

Watson nods. Holmes presses a feather light kiss to his shoulder and settles his head down on the pillows. Watson grasps Holmes's hand in his and allows the insistent pull of sleep to lure him away for the night.

When he wakes he is still in Sussex, still in their bed, and Holmes is still asleep. His grip around his body remains as tight and as solid as it had been when he'd fallen sleep. Watson smiles contentedly to the slowly breaking day and thanks whatever will hear him for this moment and all the moments still left to them and returns to sleep.


End file.
